


Shotgunning

by pandashurley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Confessions, Longing, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandashurley/pseuds/pandashurley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are going through some serious tension, when it's hot out, the blood boils.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shotgunning

**Author's Note:**

> I freaking searched forever for the person who prompted me this on Tumblr. I will keep searching and they were not an anon... so. Yay!

It was hot. Insanely hot. Uncomfortably hot. Sherlock had been keeping the windows open in hopes that the flat would cool at some point during the night, but living next to a busy street had instead made the living room smell like exhaust and hot rubber. It was insufferable to let skin touch skin, and so Sherlock had laid down a sheet on the couch and draped himself across it like a young woman on a Victorian fainting couch. Sherlock had never liked the heat. In his constant comparison of his brain to a computer, he had realized that extremes in either direction kept him from his peak operating capacity. Today was the third day in a row, the third day of feeling like whatever he drank immediately became perspiration. It felt like he had been spending three days in a sauna. Every inhalation was hot, sticky and slightly wet. It was uncomfortable. After giving Mrs. Hudson quite the fright, Sherlock was instructed by both her and John to at least wear bottoms, so Sherlock was shifting around in black cotton boxers which seemed to be getting less and less comfortable the longer he had them on.

John had been escaping to surgery every day instead of wallowing with Sherlock in the heat. Because the hospital's air conditioning wasn't broken, John often came home in a foul mood. He would walk in the door and make some comparison of the flat to the construct of Hell. While he had made that connection many times before, Sherlock was sure this time it was more about the temperature than his own temperament. What was even more insufferable than being left alone in the heat was the fact that his nicotine patches were having trouble staying attached to his skin. The constant perspiration was making it impossible to sharpen the focus of his mind. Granted there were no current cases, but there was something about not being able to tend to his experiments. It would also stop John's nagging about his abandoned experiments, which was making them both miserable.

"John? John!" Sherlock managed to call out. His voice was raspy, and a glance over to the coffee table showed that his water glass was indeed empty. And from the lack of response, John was not melting upstairs like Sherlock had hoped. "They have to be here somewhere..." Sherlock groaned, pushing himself to sitting and shuffling into the kitchen. Two glasses of water rapidly disappeared and Sherlock decided that tearing the flat apart would only aggravate his flatmate further. The easiest thing to do would be venture out into the sun to retrieve something. Well, that wasn't true. Walking back over to the table, Sherlock picked up his phone. It wasn't that he hated the sun, but if he could avoid it, it would be all the better.

**John, I have a problem. SH**

**Only one? Well at least that's an improvement. JW**

**This is no time for sass, John. It's been three days. SH**

**Three days since what? JW**

**Since any nicotine has been in my system. I need something, John. This heat is insufferable. SH**

**Three whole days? At this rate, maybe we could get you to stop entirely. JW**

**That is not at all amusing, John. SH**

Sherlock frowned. It was understandable, John's concern. He was a doctor, he had seen plenty of people die in those bloody, horrible and far too fast ways, but Sherlock was sure that he had seen others waste away slowly as a single cell mutation ate away at their bodies.

**I am sure that you are on the verge of tearing apart the flat? If you do, especially in this heat, I'm leaving it that way. JW**

**The perspiration on my skin is making it impossible for the adhesive to stick. SH**

**Is this your way of asking for cigarettes? Because you already know what I'm going to say. JW**

**How about that gum? I could pick some up on the way home. JW**

"For the love of..." Sherlock mumbled, frowning at the phone. The heat was making him irrational to the point where threatening John seemed like the best option, though it would do neither of them good in the long run. If anger was the wrong path...

**But what if I swallow the gum? SH**

Immediately, John's number popped up on his caller ID along with a ringing that broke the silence that had been settling around the flat. Sherlock smirked and answered the call.

"Sherlock Bloody Holmes, the man who doesn't have time to learn about the solar system, the man who keeps severed heads in my damn fridge, the man who faked his own death is suddenly scared of swallowing gum? For the love of all that is Holy, Sherlock, please tell me you are not serious." John's incredulous tone echoed through the room.

"Ah, John. So nice of you to call. How's work?" Sherlock responded smugly.

"Now don't you start with me. Lord, you must be bored, pretending to be stupid just so I'll talk to you." John sighed and Sherlock smirked again at the sound of frustration in his voice.

"That's what I'm talking about, John. You must understand that this is a cry for help!" Sherlock said so overly dramatically that he heard John hide a snicker on the other end of the line.

"Obviously." John sighed and both men sat in silence for a moment. "This isn't going to be something you can get away with all the time now, you know that, right?" John asked.

"It isn't this hot year 'round, John." Sherlock responded, triumph welling up inside of him.

"God damnit, Sherlock..." John sighed. "If nothing serious pops up in an hour, I was going to come home early anyway. If something serious does pop up, you'll have to wait until I get home or go out on your own. You understand?"

"Yes, of course."

"And only one pack, Sherlock. No buying in bulk and hiding them around and saying that every new pack is that one pack, I'm not falling for that again. I know all your hiding spots now and I will check them." John threatened.

"Of course, John." Sherlock's smile widened. It was wonderful to know how well John was catching on to his little quirks and subterfuge. "Anything else?"

"Wait until I call you and tell you if I'm coming home or not, you aren't going to get more that way either." Sherlock was almost legitimately shocked by the statement. John really was getting more and more observant of his erratic tendencies.

"I must admit, I am impressed." Sherlock murmured.

"Of course you are, you blind git. I'll talk to you in an hour." Sherlock heard the laughter in his voice and smiled when he heard the click of the call ending. For a second, the flat didn't seem so hot and Sherlock felt himself relax into the calm of the moment.

Being away from John had been hard, like trying to start life over after losing a limb but the pins and needles were still there. John had been the anchor to his otherwise scattered mind. Without him, even though he was in hiding, even Mycroft could see the toll it had on him. He had become more paranoid and not as sure in his findings, his mission was scrambled in comparison to the well thought out plan he had started with. That first meeting after those two long years had been tense, and John handled it as well as could be expected.

Over the last 8 months or so, life had returned back to normal. Their kind of normal, but something had changed. John hadn't necessarily broken his engagement to Mary, but their wedding had been put on hold for what Sherlock assumed was a indefinite amount of time. Sherlock knew why, of course. When Sherlock walked back into his life, so did the unknowing danger. John would never subject Mary to that. Nor did he subject Mary into living in the flat with the two of them, even though Mary and John had made it a home in Sherlock's absence. She hadn't raised much fuss, but still sent John over time and time again with home cooked meals that Sherlock picked at when John wasn't around. John was more open, more prone to calling Sherlock out on whatever mess he was trying to get himself in to.

They had also spent many nights over a bottle of whiskey and a chess board, with John and his unceasing need to know everything that Sherlock did the two years he was away. Not hesitating at all to carefully remind Sherlock that he had been a broken and shattered man because of the "stunt he pulled." Reminding him again and again that Mary was the one who got him out of his depression and back on the road to being a semi-normal, PTSD-suffering member of the Surgical Team. Sherlock tread carefully in his retellings and how he told John what he had felt during their long absence, mostly because he didn't want John to hear that he had been a missing leg to Sherlock's life.

While Sherlock was replaying the immaculately conserved conversations in his mind, he let himself escape into the cool halls of his mind palace. He had kept a version of John there. The one who made him tea when he was stuck on a problem or brooding for no good reason. The John that would tell him he had to get out of bed and finish this mess so he could go home, the John that would soothe him into sleep by telling a story he had heard a million times. Real John didn't know about Mind Palace John, and Sherlock was hoping to keep it that way.

Lost in his mind palace, Sherlock didn't notice his phone ring several times. He didn't hear the keys in the door downstairs, or the door open and shut. He didn't hear John calling for him, somewhat frantically and overly nervous. He didn't hear the door to the flat bang open or the sigh of relief that escaped his semi-level headed flatmate. He did, however, feel the Union Jack pillow slam into his face, surprising him to the point he almost fell off the couch. When Sherlock finally realized he was back in the flat and no longer in his mind palace, he was treated to the rare sight of a collapsed John Watson struggling to breathe through the laughter.

"I didn't realize I was that funny." Sherlock said with a frown, tossing the pillow at John's face where it landed softly but was thrown off by another wave of laughter.

"What's funny is when you get lost in your mind palace and forget your body is still in the real world." John managed to say through the laughter. John finally managed to calm himself enough to sit up and pull a pack of cigarettes from the bag that was temporarily forgotten on the floor. Tossing them to Sherlock, John pulled himself off the floor still snickering softly.

Sherlock didn't waste anytime tearing into the pack, much like a starved animal in front of a kill. It had been ages since a proper dose of nicotine and John had been nice enough to get him a bland covered pack of matches. Lighting the tip and inhaling deeply, Sherlock kept most of the smoke in his lungs, relaxing into the buzzing sensation sweeping over every fold in his brain. Slowly exhaling, he could feel his pupils dilate slowly at the rush of endorphins running rampant into his blood stream. For a moment, the world melted away and all that was left was a swirling tail of blue gray cigarette smoke and a focus his mind hadn't been privy to in quite some time.

"I've always wondered how that was enjoyable." John's soft voice cut into his own personal nirvana like a record scratch. Sherlock opened his eyes as he took another drag.

"Well, the chemical reactions in the brain are the first thing stimulated, but as a doctor, you know the physicality and chemistry of addictive substances on the brain." Sherlock responded, exhaling slowly. His heart had sped up slightly already, the blood was pumping through him faster, delivering the addictive nicotine combined with all it's carcinogenic beauty.

"Chemically, yes, I understand. But why would you ever start in the first place?" John asked, taking his seat in his chair that felt a million miles away from Sherlock's current location.

"Didn't the peer pressure adverts teach you anything? It makes you look "cool"." Sherlock said with a smirk, grabbing the pack and the matches and moving closer to John. They always seemed to talk better across from each other, rather than across the room.

"I don't think so." John said with a small huff. Falling softly and inhumanly gracefully into his seat, Sherlock pulled the ornate Buckingham Palace ashtray closer to him. Sherlock had scrounged it up, putting it close to the fireplace. Watching the fire dance across it's multidimensional crystalline surface was nothing short of fascinating.

"So you've never tried?" Sherlock asked, flicking the cigarette and watching the ash scatter across the smooth surface of the ashtray. Inhaling again, Sherlock's eyes lingered on John as he held in the smoke before his long exhale. John waved a hand in front of his face, trying vainly to get the smoke out of his breathable air.

"Almost, one time back at uni. I sort of chickened out though. My mate said that if I was going into the army, the one thing I could do to calm the stress that wouldn't affect my medical skills was smoking." John responded with a shrug. Sherlock had formed a little O with his mouth and was currently blowing smoke rings that were passing right by John's head. "I've always wondered how people do that." John said, reaching up a hand and stabbing his finger through a couple of the smoke rings.

"It's a delicate ballet between ones depressor anguli oris, orbicularis oris, buccinator and platysma muscles in the face and neck..." Sherlock paused, pressing his mouth into a little O as a demonstration. "Then its a matter of training the myriad of glossus muscles to shape the smoke in your throat as you blow." Sherlock put all the parts together blowing one smoke ring and letting it expand, before adding a few more rings to the middle of it.

"You seem quite practiced." John observed quietly, his eyes never quite leaving Sherlock's mouth as he demonstrated.

"There is little else to do when your mind is running so fast it's almost like everything around you has stopped." Sherlock said, blowing a new array of rings for John's amusement.

"Would you teach me?" John asked softly.

"So you think smoking is cool now, do you?" Sherlock said, teasing John as he stabbed the butt of his cigarette into the crystal just slightly too hard.

"I think what you're doing is interesting." John admitted as he leaned forward in his chair slightly.

"There's only one problem with your request, John." John responded with a raised eyebrow. "You don't smoke. The entire purpose of smoke rings is to enjoy the toroidal vortex." Sherlock explained as he twirled a cigarette carefully around in his fingers. The sun had finally started to set, adding an air of coolness to their conversation. There was a single lamp on, illuminating them both slightly while John digested the weight of Sherlock's observation. "Besides, as a man whose sexual reputation follows him around three continents, I would think at some point one of those many women would have gotten you to inhale something." Sherlock murmured as he lit his next cigarette with a flourish of his wrist. John felt like he was watching Sherlock play violin again, something he hadn't done since his return.

"There are some things I know you say just for me to correct you." John smirked, watching Sherlock's chest as he inhaled. Both of them were still covered in a fine sheen of sweat, but while John's was getting absorbed by his t-shirt, Sherlock's naked chest was glistening in the low lamp light. "Because you know it wasn't just women." Sherlock's eyes flashed, suddenly remembering the drunken night that John described another drunken night while he had been on leave. "Did you honestly forget because it wasn't important or because you didn't want to remember?" John asked, grabbing his water glass and shuffling back to the kitchen.

Sherlock was speechless, almost thoughtless at the sudden spear right into his innermost thoughts at that moment. Had he forgotten out of convenience or jealousy? Sexuality was usually the last thing on his mind, but Sherlock still remembered the first time he saw John after those two long years. It was like there was nothing in the world as tangible as John. Like he was all the warmth and life and hope in the world wrapped up in a hideous jumper, and Sherlock just wanted to hold him so tight. He wanted to bury all of that into his chest if it were the thing that would start his cold heart again.

When John sat down, his glass wasn't full of water. Lots of ice and what looked like three fingers of amber liquid. Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow and stubbed out his cigarette. Their silent conversations hadn't changed at all, which was at the same time a relief and disconcerting for both men.

"Is this going to be another John Watson confession night?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, trying his best to act over dramatically bored.

"Things... between us... they're still a little raw, eh?" John asked softly. "I still feel you as keeping that arms length between us, but not in the physical sense." John sighed and sipped from his glass. "We've been living here together for 7 months now. Right after you left, when I was wishing you were just going to walk right back through that door and everything could go back to the way it was..." John paused and sighed, and Sherlock took the cue to light another cigarette. "Those thoughts were two years ago, though, Sherlock. Everything is different and yet we keep forcing ourselves to be the same. I don't know how much longer I can go on pretending like the last two years hasn't happened." John finished, taking a large sip from his glass and hissing almost inaudibly at the burn that followed.

Sherlock inhaled, holding the breath full of smoke deep in his lungs, reveling silently as he felt the hot sting of chemicals attacking his bronchials and avioli. Exhaling slowly, he let his gaze slip away from John and down to the floor. He knew John was going to say something about his avoidant behavior, but in truth he was struggling to come up with an answer. The Great Sherlock Holmes doesn't say "I don't know."

"Scoot closer, John." Sherlock stated simply. John looked back at him, confusion completely masking his face. "I could take the risk of giving you a cigarette of your own, but since I am partial to this carpet in its current uncharred state and given the fact that you have very specifically said this is my only pack for some time, then the easiest way for you to experience this particular chemical high is going to be the same way I was taught." John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Though my teacher probably had a much different approach with a younger me than I currently do with you, John. Now, come on. Scoot." Sherlock explained with a quick jerk of his head. John was never sure if that was supposed to be some sort of signal or some over exaggerated head jerk to pull those unruly curls from his face.

After a moment of silence between the two, the inevitable happened and John started to pull himself and his chair closer to Sherlock. The movements were ridiculous and made John look completely silly, but Sherlock was being ludicrous and the only way to combat it was to one up the man. About a foot apart, John paused.

"Closer." Sherlock almost purred, stabbing out his cigarette and folding his hands gently into his lap. John rolled his eyes and moved the chair so their knees were almost touching. Sherlock smirked. "Closer." This time his voice was barely above a whisper. John scooted close enough that his knees were touching Sherlock's chair and vice versa, tangling their legs together ever so slightly. John's knee brushed against Sherlock's accidentally and his apology was already prepped and ready when a shock, probably from the friction of scooting across the floor, jumped from John to Sherlock. Sherlock smiled again but didn't comment.

"So why so close?" John asked, his voice lowered now that they were so close. Everything felt more intimate, smaller, closer.

"You really are quite the conundrum, John Watson." Sherlock began, his whole self still as the headstone John still had nightmares about. "Almost bipolar, but not quite as severe. There are definitely two sides to you, though. More and more I keep hearing something in your voice, almost like longing, but I think I brush it away because it couldn't make sense. You have Mary after all, such a lovely woman." Sherlock paused, pulling his hands apart and picking up the book of matches, playing with it between his fingers. "The term "soul mates" is usually reserved for lovers, two people who know each other intimately and still feel like they've known each other forever. So why is it, John, that despite our lack of intimate contact, I feel as if you are my soul mate?" The question rang in the air for a moment, and John felt himself suddenly forget how to breathe. He felt his face flush. The ghosts of thoughts started flowing back into his brain about how much he loved Mary, but how it just wasn't the same.

"Sherlock, I-" John was stopped by a single long finger held up to indicate that he wasn't done speaking.

"I have a feeling that the two years we spent apart were remarkably similar. Grey, dull, boring. No matter what light came into our lives, it never compared to the sun we had already found. Though I'm sure we processed the information differently as well. While I had accepted that I had found, you seemed to have tried to find the next best thing..." Sherlock's voice was soft with heart ache. John never realized what an impact being with Mary would have. Sherlock pulled a cigarette from it's case and brought it to his lips, lighting it in one swift flick of his wrist. Inhaling and exhaling away from John's face, Sherlock continued. "Though that hardly matters because I have come to find you were right in doing so. You are also right in the fact that we can't pretend like it never happened. There will be eventual resentment, anger, fighting, mistrust. As my partner, we need to be able to trust each other." Sherlock paused, inhaling again and looking comfortably at John. "Do you trust me, John? Even after all that happened?" John paused and thought for a moment.

"It wasn't easy and it took time, but eventually I forgave you. Even when you didn't come back." John all but whispered.

"Do you trust me right now, John? Right at this very moment?" Sherlock asked again. John looked into those icy eyes, wondering if he looked hard enough if he could find the right answer to the question. He knew his answer to be yes, but even Sherlock knew that the answer wasn't that simple.

"Yes." John answered with as much courage as he could muster. Sherlock smirked, and John saw sadness flash in his eyes. "Not every minute of every day. I still panic about waking up and not seeing you here, or thinking that this is all some sick dream and that I'm in some loony bin somewhere in the country. But I know those thoughts aren't your fault. I trust you still, I just don't trust myself to believe you."

"As I exhale, you will inhale." Sherlock said, leaning forward slightly. "Open your mouth." Without thinking, John felt his jaw drop open. Sherlock inhaled and said again, "As I exhale, you inhale." Before bringing his mouth inches away from John's own, and beginning a slow exhale. It felt strange to John, and he began to feel the burn of the chemical smoke hitting his lungs. Before he knew it, Sherlock had pulled away and was blowing the rest of the smoke in his mouth into rings. "Now exhale, slowly and carefully." John took his time, exhaling until there was no more air in his lungs and then began to cough. Taking a sip of his whiskey to calm the cough, John was suddenly hit by vertigo and hearing his blood rushing through his ears. Sherlock's low baritone was rumbling somewhere in the distance, but John just shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Slowly opening his eyes, the world's axis was slowly see sawing back to normal and Sherlock's voice was finally coming through.

"-no way to describe that feeling as it hits you. I figured it was something you needed to experience rather than explained." Sherlock said with a smile.

"What?" John's mouth felt tingly and the word had felt like it had come out too slow.

"I was saying that the first shock of nicotine and whatever other chemicals to the brain is incredibly disorienting but there was no way to describe it to you." Sherlock said, inhaling again.

"Is it like that every time?" John asked, his brain still slightly muddled.

"No, it isn't, thank the gods. I would have died a hundred thousand times over if that were the case." Sherlock said with a small laugh.

"Again?" John asked softly, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow to him. John gave one simple nod, and it felt like Sherlock was suddenly in his personal space, closer now. John felt a warm hand against his knee and Sherlock's lips were warmer and closer as he exhaled and John inhaled. This time, Sherlock could only make a few smoke rings as he pulled away and John really did understand what it felt like to possibly be a dragon, watching the smoke billow out of him before his own eyes. The buzz and the high were still there, but in a drastically lower intensity. John was still frozen close to Sherlock, who without asking, placed a hand under his chin, tilted his head up and pressed the ghost of a kiss to John's lips.

"Sherlock... I-" John stuttered, looking at Sherlock who hadn't pulled too far away yet.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock whispered, looking at the shapes John's mouth made as he spoke.

"I..." The heat and tension between them was now palpable to the extent that John was literally feeling blood draining from his brain. Sherlock's other hand was now playing with the lines of the sinews and veins in his neck, only proving to distract him further. "I don't give a flying fuck anymore..." John murmured before pushing forward and pressing their lips together again. A soft, almost unheard moan came out of Sherlock which only proved to fuel John's arousal, causing the man to lick his way hungrily into the detectives mouth.

The heat of the day had long passed, but both men were still inherently pushed by the fire that had lain dormant in their blood for far too long. John reveled at the cool marble of Sherlock's skin caressing his neck, his arms, his hands as they battled for dominance until John finally broke for air, pressing their foreheads together in an effort to keep them close. Both men breathing a little harshly and Sherlock's wandering hands gave them both little time to process what was actually happening.

"Sherlock... Sherlock, wait..." John panted, placing a hand gently over the alabaster spider creeping up his thigh.

"I thought this was what you wanted..." Sherlock breathed, trying vainly to pull his hand out from underneath John's.

"Sherlock Holmes, I have wanted you from the first moment. From that second you came back for me and all I could respond with was "God, yes." I want this, but I need to know you want this too. I need to know you aren't doing this as a favor or because you feel you have to... I want you. I want to see you falling apart, I want to see you, not the person I want you to be." John said almost breathlessly, grabbing onto Sherlock's squirming hand and squeezing it into stillness.

"God, yes." Came the single, breathless reply. John recaptured Sherlock's mouth with an unrelenting hunger, finally giving into the urge to touch, to ultimately possess that which had been escaping through his fingers for far too long. Sherlock's still naked chest was cool, and slightly damp and John took his time to run his fingers over every muscle peeking through the skin, over every puckered white scar not once checking to see where his fingers were leading him. Sherlock was letting out soft little moans, moans that had been kept secret for so long. John broke and stripped himself of his thin t-shirt, allowing the tall lanky man to climb into his chair and settle in his lap before pressing a chaste kiss to the soldiers lips and leaning his head down to worship the forgotten skin along John's neck and collarbones.

John was squirming softly, trying to get both of Sherlock's legs on either side of his own, slotting them together like two long lost puzzle pieces to finally complete their beautiful picture. Tall, rail thin and pale melting into thick, tan and strong. John gasped, feeling Sherlock's tongue tracing the star burst pattern around his scar, those long cool fingers coming up to poke and prod at the still puckered and scarred skin. It wasn't that anyone hadn't done this before, but Sherlock with all his knowledge and all his curiosity was studying it sightlessly like he was discovering a new element or a new reaction. It was almost reverent in worship. John let his hands slide up creamy thighs, up over the tight curve of his buttocks, and up his back as far as his hands could reach before running his nails lightly all the way back down again. Sherlock shivered and moaned, a delicious deep sound that seemed to travel directly to John's cock, still hidden in his trousers.

The soft head of Sherlock's cock had been poking him in the belly since the man had crawled into his lap, and while he was still bent on exploring both sides of John's scar, John wrapped a warm hand around the silk covered erection nearly begging for his attentions. Sherlock's whole body stuttered, as if the contact was completely foreign before moaning and thrusting against John's hand. John smirked as he pulled his hand away, hooking fingers in the band of Sherlock's pants and tugging at them, causing the taller man to shift before he got up entirely. John was caught completely off guard by the image before him. Sherlock was like a towering statue, pale and beautiful, the soft glow of the light accentuating everything it could. Sherlock held out his hand, which John took without hesitation, and both men walked back into Sherlock's bedroom.

"Do I have to ask?" John murmured, pushing Sherlock back on the bed and watching him fall and just splay out from his hair all the way down. John climbed on top of Sherlock this time, running his hands over Sherlock's chest, picking out all the new scars that had appeared that John hadn't been there to tend. Some were larger than others, some showed signs of healed infections, making the scar pucker more than most. He saw slight stitching scars, but all of them were a well healed pinkish white.

"Ask what, exactly?" Sherlock replied, running his hands up and down John's still clothed thighs. "You should get these off, by the way." He said with a smirk, which fell quite quickly as John got up to shuck off the light canvas trousers. Sherlock let out a little squeak of surprise when he realized John wasn't wearing pants under his trousers. John leaned forward and hooked his fingers into Sherlock's silk black pants and Sherlock pushed his hips up, and both watched the slight fabric float to the floor. John wasted no time in crawling back onto Sherlock's lap, both men moaning as their cocks brushed up against one another softly.

"You never confirmed or disproved the virgin rumor..." John moaned, thrusting softly against Sherlock. Sherlock's head tilted back and John couldn't control his need to press his lips against the heartbeat showing through the skin, or lick the harsh curve of Sherlock's Adam's apple.

"I'm sure the answer will be obvious enough..." Sherlock managed to say through a string of moans before wrapping his arms around John's waist and flipping them both over. "Though I would suppose it would depend on if I'm the one fucking you, or you're the one fucking me..." Sherlock growled, licking and biting his way from John's ear, down his chest until John could only see that black curly mop of hair in between his thighs. If John could have focused through the sinful pattern that Sherlock's tongue was taking, he would have been able to respond. Just as he was about to open his mouth for a witty retort, hot, wet, velvety heat closed around the head of his cock and his mind stalled and blanked, leaving John only to moan at the heavenly sensation.

It was indeed obvious that the virgin rumors were a lie, with the way Sherlock currently had his nose almost touching John's belly and John couldn't help but moan feeling Sherlock's tongue, lips and throat all around his cock. Sherlock's fingers were also busy, tracing patterns up and down the backs of his thighs and probing softly at John's hole. John tangled his fingers into Sherlock's curly hair, thrusting slightly and melting at the sensation of a slight gag reflex clenching around him. Sherlock pulled himself off John's cock slowly, hearing the soldier whimper softly before kissing his thighs, his balls, that sensitive stretch of skin right up to his hole before brushing his tongue across it. John arched, his cock bouncing lightly against his belly, leaking a few drops of precum into the soft trail of hair there.

"Drawer on your left." Sherlock's voice came, followed by a light nip to his inner thigh to spur him into action. John twisted and reached, hoping that Sherlock would keep doing whatever he was doing. His hand closed around a half empty bottle of lube and John quickly tossed it down toward Sherlock's hands. Hearing the click of the cap opening sent shivers all over John's body and he heard Sherlock chuckle at the sudden appearance of goosebumps covering his flesh. "Been a while?" Sherlock asked, pulling himself to sitting and spreading John's legs on either side of his own. John could barely nod, embarrassment flushing his cheeks and chest a lovely shade of pink. Sherlock pooled a small amount of lube in his hand, before rubbing his hands together to warm the liquid. John watched as one long hand wrapped itself around his cock, giving it a few pumps before more lube was added into Sherlock's palm. "In that case..." Sherlock murmured before his eyes fluttered closed. It took John a moment to realize what was actually happening. Sherlock had one hand wrapped around his cock, and Sherlock's other hand was no where to be seen. From the noises Sherlock was making, John only needed a moment to realize where those nice long fingers had disappeared to.

"Look at you..." John's voice was husky, deep and so filled with need. "You going to fuck yourself for me? Open up that pretty little arse of yours so you can just impale yourself on my hot, hard cock?" Sherlock moaned, and John smirked. "You like it when I talk dirty, don't you, Sherlock?" The floppy head of curls nodded and the moans became more frequent. "Can't quite reach that little button, can you, baby? Why don't you stretch out that hole a little more and come sit on my cock..." John moaned, arching into Sherlock's hand, which had since stopped moving so John was busy fucking himself into that perfect fist. "Come on, Sherlock. Ride my fucking cock, cum all over my chest... I know you want to feel how perfectly we'll fit, how good my cum will feel as it shoots inside of you..." Sherlock moaned and all but pounced on John, lining up John's cock with his hole and letting John slide inside.

John felt his mind white out, like there was nothing. Then it was all fireworks, shooting stars and tight heat wrapped around him. Sherlock was sinking down onto John's cock painfully slowly, both men moaning with longing that had needed to be expressed for the last two years. Or longer. John managed to open his eyes long enough to see Sherlock starting to rock back and forth, shifting John's cock right up against his prostate and starting to fuck right there. Sherlock looked perfect, head thrown back and back bowed. John placed his hands lightly on Sherlock's hips, letting his own head roll back as Sherlock picked up his pace.

"Yeah..." John moaned. "Ride that fucking cock..." Sherlock moaned loudly. "You love it, don't you? Finally having my cock buried in your ass. Look at you, flushed like a horny little cunt. Ride that fucking cock, Sherlock..." John moaned as Sherlock managed to increase his movements again. Sherlock's movements are becoming more frantic and John can feel that delicious squeeze on his cock and he can't help but thrust in deeper. A few strokes and Sherlock's whole body is tense, close to the edge and seeing him so wanton, so lost and needy, brings John kicking and screaming to the same point. Both men feel it at the same time, that moment of clarity, of peace and silence before both worlds come crashing down and out in hot, translucent ropes. One across a bare chest, the other buried in tight, white heat.

Breathlessly, Sherlock collapses next to John, a hand still on his chest and John just holds it there, unmoving. There aren't any words, there is only touch and when Sherlock's lips find their way back to the scar, licking up the cooling beads of cum over his chest, John can't help but think this was what they should have been doing all along. The night is almost turning into day again when neither man can finally move, save for draping a sheet over the both of them. Sleepy murmurs fill the air until silence settles over them, both clinging to the other as if this was a dream long awaited to be played out and both were just waiting to wake up in the morning.

"Mm, one more question before I fall asleep." John murmured into Sherlock's hair. He smelled like sex and soap and sweat and smoke. Faintly of smoke, but it was still there. Sherlock grumbled in response. "What was that called, you blowing smoke into my mouth?" John asked quietly. Sherlock chuckled and scooted closer.

"Shotgunning..." He mumbled sleepily.

"Sounds more violent than what I was expecting..." John answered with a sleepy smile. Sherlock's deep, even breath was the only response he got.


End file.
